


Colors

by aliceecrivain



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Introspection, M/M, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 08:28:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7525618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliceecrivain/pseuds/aliceecrivain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Underneath it all, beyond the act, beyond the rumors, beyond what this strange little anomaly has evolved into over time one can find fractures, hints and clues as to what it truly is, as to what “they” truly are. It’s some of the old, and some of the new; something recognizable and something entirely undiscovered. It’s Shizuo not giving a damn and then taking the time to carry Izaya carefully to bed when he falls asleep working, and it’s Izaya laughing like it means nothing to him and then picking apart the colors of the rainbow in Shizuo’s eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colors

**Author's Note:**

> Please pardon any color discrepancies in this (e.g. I've seen Shizuo's glasses described as violet but I've always seen them as blue). To be fair, some of the things listed are canonical, but many I simply made up and gave them whatever color fit best, so it's occasionally random. Please excuse any general rustiness as well: it's been quite a while since I've posted fic :")
> 
> I think my original idea for this was framed as a way to write Shizaya without having to actually write dialogue or plot, for fear of messing it up, and ultimately this is what came out of it: a short, introspective piece with the most blatantly gay theme possible. Ah well.

Their relationship is a spectrum, varied in all the best and worst possible ways, but that’s what it means, living to the point of extremity. On the surface, black and white reigns: games of cat and dog, winner and loser, who is left growling irritably alone in an empty alley—and what an overused trick that is—and who has the last laugh, and truthfully this polarity goes beyond skin-deep, pushes its way into the many facets of what has, inexplicably or inevitably, it’s hard to say, become known as “them,” two people brought together by something greater than their individual selves, attached beyond their control, damned to spin around each other for eternity like two opposing magnets trapped in a too-small space.

Izaya doesn’t find it particularly surprising that these are the only hues people see, looking at the two of them. Some of this is due to their own concerted effort to keep up with long-standing, too-well-known expectations and reputations. Neither has much of a desire to turn themselves inside out for all of Ikebukuro to behold. But it’s more than that, he thinks. He’d mentioned it once to Shizuo who, as with most intellectual things Izaya mentions off-hand to him, didn’t give a damn. For him, it is what it is. Izaya supposes his opinion is apt—nice and simple, concise and straightforward—but where’s the fun in that? No, that isn’t all there is to it. What most see is a simple amalgamation, a misleading mixture of many elements at once. It’s the pinnacle, the culmination, the climax, one might say, but it doesn’t tell the whole story.

Underneath it all, beyond the act, beyond the rumors, beyond what this strange little anomaly has evolved into over time—years of loathing, years of hurting; years of reconciling, years of learning—one can find fractures, hints and clues as to what it truly is, as to what “they” truly are. It’s some of the old, and some of the new; something recognizable and something entirely undiscovered. It’s Shizuo not giving a damn and then taking the time to carry Izaya carefully to bed when he falls asleep working, and it’s Izaya laughing like it means nothing to him and then picking apart the colors of the rainbow in Shizuo’s eyes:

Their relationship is black like the night sky, spilling inky over the Ikebukuro skyline, never a deterrent in their chases, better oftentimes than closed doors for privacy. Like the smooth dark of Izaya’s hair, sticking to his forehead after a shower, fluttering obnoxiously around his face as he sidesteps another street sign, skips up the side of a building as easily as if it were all a dance and he a spectacle, lighter than air. Like pupils blown wide by adrenaline spiking blood from strong fingers clutched around a pale neck, sometimes choking, sometimes caressing, sometimes something in between. Like two shadows stretching long in the light of a steadily setting sun, occasionally turning heads, but, for the most part, blending in among the multiplicity of the crowd. Like the frames of Izaya’s reading glasses, tucked away at first, outside the realm of Shizuo’s awareness under the pretense of keeping them in one piece, now left on more often than not, forgotten even in sleep and having to be removed by, ironically, Shizuo himself in order that they not actually snap. Like a glimpse of a familiar jacket, taunting, infuriatingly enticing, disappearing just around the corner. Like the pressed lines of so many uniforms stacked neatly together with more care than Izaya sees Shizuo take with anything else, so easily toppled by the stray brush of a hand. Like Celty in rare excited conversation Shizuo, watched with detached curiosity and irritatingly personal jealousy from afar. Like the momentary blackness caused by the crack of a skull against hard concrete. Like the heady shadows of a dark bedroom, silent save for oddly slow, synchronized breath.

And it’s purple like the veins pushed to the surface of Shizuo’s skin by the force of forming a fist and connecting it mere inches away from Izaya’s ear, cracking the plaster again. Like the smog of the city tinted by the light of a slow, quiet sunrise, turning the view out of Shizuo’s bedroom window hazy and vague enough to convince Izaya that attempting to wake up the slumbering body beside him might be better for keeping his mind occupied than people-watching. Like a collection of slowly-fading welts with Izaya’s hips seemingly as their epicenter, consistently replaced before they have time to heal entirely, eyed with more amusement than suspicion when Shinra manages to drag him in for an appointment to check in on another healing injury, one not so willingly received. Like the backdrop of looming mountains, rising up above the layer of clouds settled around their peaks in some sort of natural phenomenon that Izaya points out and explains to Shizuo who is more interested in the way Izaya’s voice curves and dips around syllables that aren’t, for once, meant as easy bait to his temper than what he’s actually saying on a rare day when both are off from work and choose to do something together out of the house. Like the faint undertones of lilac Shizuo can smell sometimes in Izaya’s shampoo. Like the space in the sky stretching out above them where sunset bleeds into night, sketching out an in-between moment where they can glance down and see the hazy, almost-dark barely cloaking their connected hands and find a moment of silence before time rushes forth once more.

And it’s blue like the space underneath Izaya’s eyes when Shizuo finds him asleep in front of his computer for the third time that week. Like the cool touch of Izaya’s hands against Shizuo’s cheek, the purposeful shock of his feet against previously warm legs under the blankets. Like bruises rising up from sunken sin, staining, mottling, possessive and dismissive alike. Like the glint of Shizuo’s sunglasses, yet another part of him that catches Izaya’s eye in a crowd, makes him wonderfully easy to locate, whenever necessary or simply if he feels like seeking out the trouble sure to arise from such an unannounced encounter. Like another broken plate tossed into the waste bin, dwindling down Izaya’s total collection in a seemingly regretful crash, loud enough to make sure even the neighbors can hear. Like Kasuka’s shirt the first day he sees them together, unplanned, sending Shizuo into an unnatural panic even as Izaya waves and beckons him over as though the whole situation was to be expected and swears he sees the other man’s normally blank expression twitch up into something like relief, if not quite approval. Like the stain of a popsicle on Shizuo’s tongue, sickly sweet and cloying enough to make his partner gag overdramatically. Like the quiet days in separate apartments, seeking space that never works to fill voids created. Like a too-damp day and wet clothes discarded quickly enough to tempt chills. Like the ache in the morning, waking up to an empty bed. Like silent, hidden tears, like whispered words. Like the warped reflections of worn tile in Shizuo’s apartment in a fogged up mirror. Like the greyish spray of the ocean, visited on a whim, soaking into shirtsleeves and dangling hems in the midst of an oddly playful spiff. Like the boundless sky of a summer day, endless, unbearably bright.

And it’s green like the smell of freshly cut grass from a high school field, drifting by on a whim and making the scar on Shizuo’s chest ache. Like the odd varnish on a plate of Russia Sushi, knocked to the side in the wake of Izaya’s endless mission to steal as much food as possible off of Shizuo’s plate in spite of having a generally palatable—as is the Russia Sushi way—meal of his own right in front of him. Like the leaves on the trees in the park chittering silently to each other, not providing nearly enough cover for Izaya to escape Shizuo’s sharp eyes and seemingly elevated senses as he approaches, blatantly crossing the professional boundaries the other attempted to draw when this all first began, as was customary by then. Like the cool, fresh of Izaya’s breath in the too-early morning, attempting to dodge Shizuo’s groggy attempts at connecting their mouths and, by extension, his morning breath—“Shizu-chan, I just brushed my teeth.” Like the inside of Izaya’s wallet, flipped open oh-so-casually to pay again, much to Shizuo’s chagrin, turning his stomach uneasy with guilt no matter how many times he’s reassured it doesn’t really matter—how can it not? Like ugly faded color of the walls of the hallway in Izaya’s apartment building, the pattern blurring together beneath Shizuo’s continuous stare, waiting for the other to make his excruciatingly slow way over to the door, back when he was too proud to use his key. Like the various houseplants Shizuo demanded be brought in to give Izaya’s apartment some semblance of life—“It feels like a shiny, metal crypt in here. How the hell do you live in this place?”—, much to Namie’s irritation, thinking it at first another inane task for her to waste her time with, but which, to her surprise, get on fairly well without her assistance with the two men working to keep them from dying together.

And it’s yellow like Shizuo’s hair, newly dyed, in the sun, a warning sign to the rest of the crowd, always a helpful beacon for Izaya’s own purposes. Like an ad on the side of a vending machine, inexplicably airborne, a bright blur across the sky. Like the familiar gleam of a motorcycle helmet, glancing between the two of them, happy to see a familiar face one second, vaguely baffled and disapproving the next. Like lemon ice melting on the sidewalk, side stepped by slightly heeled shoes, the result of a minor prank gone just far enough. Like the sun glaring down on a bright spring day, brilliantly illuminating the room, undeterred by Shizuo’s half-broken blinds and reflecting enough to blind off of each and every sleek, shiny, breakable piece of furniture in Izaya’s possession. Like the smell of lemon zest lingering over another round of culinary experimentation—“Shizu-chan wouldn’t know how to season something if someone hit him over the head with a spice rack.” Like the light drifting down weakly from the flickering bulb of a street lamp: a benchmark flying past, flickering across two faces, two pairs of footsteps, always in pursuit of the same thing these days. Like the color of Shizuo’s eyes in just the right light, lighting his face up predatory over a growl or intense over heavy, uneven breaths or unbearably handsome over a smile.

And it’s orange like the sparks rising up from the end of a cigarette, technically prohibited within the bounds of Izaya’s fancy loft, allowed with only minimal complaint more than once nonetheless. Like the neon lights flashing on and off along the streets below, reflecting strangely through Izaya’s too-big windows, warped and glaring, casting the rooms ethereal. Like the bite of citrus at the back of Izaya’s tongue, tangy, addictive. Like the grumbled acceptance of juice in the morning when the milk runs out and neither can be bothered to go out and get more. Like the overly bright sounds of a television forgotten in the background again. Like yet another cracked, outdated cell phone tossed carelessly onto the table, followed closely by a growl of irritation and an implication of blame, occasionally deserved. Like the shock of Izaya’s laugh, breaking through a silence, mocking, honest, breathless. Like the color of the ugliest goddamn piece of art Shizuo has ever seen which Izaya proceeds to buy and hang proudly in his entryway. Like Mairu and Kururi’s matching hair pieces the day they run into the two of them heading back from the dojo, leaving Shizuo questioning why their first demand was to know why “Iza-nii gets to have one”—referring apparently, as Izaya later decodes, to “one Heiwajima,” and thus to his brother—“when we don’t!” for days to come, his ears ringing with the shrill, seemingly honest betrayal in their voices. Like the milky glow of a new day, inexplicably gentle, full of enough promise to turn it simultaneously terrifying and more hopeful than either has known before. Like the lingering rays of a shared sunset, lasting a few seconds too long.

And it’s red like a stop sign turned into a projectile, flying by close enough to blow Izaya’s hair back from his face and jumpstart his heart better than any defibrillator ever could. Like Izaya’s eyes, always glinting electric, pairing perfectly with his permanent smirk, mocking with the assurance than he knows something no one else does. Like blood, the scent of it thick, metallic, pervasive, staining clothes and skin and furniture, teeth and tongues and the sharp of Izaya’s knife, enough of a constant in their lives to necessitate that their medicine cabinets stay better stocked than some small hospitals, the result of arguments turned messy, deals gone awry, overly desperate arousal, and lucky shots, and occasion for closed doors and deathly silent nights on the couch or quiet reconciliation and displays of surreptitious affection around a roll of gauze and the acrid scent of antiseptic. Like long parallel lines down Shizuo’s back, hard-earned and only ever a source of irritation during the first moments of stinging contact with the water in the shower the next day. Like the color that flashes occasionally behind Shizuo’s eyes, a well-known precursor to the consequences of his anger, still drawn to the surface now and again, but not nearly as often as it used to be which he’s never sure if he can contribute to the lessening frequency of Izaya’s purposeful attempts to incite his ire or to his own patience growing by the year or a bit of both. Like the flashing lights in the downtown district of Ikebukuro, the setting of another supposedly-chance meeting, the glow of the city reflecting off Izaya’s smile and revealing the way the corners of Shizuo’s mouth turn up against his will in response. Like the color sullying Shinra’s clinical white coat one chilling night where too close for comfort becomes reality, leaving Shizuo to pace the living room and pull at his hair almost violently, causing Celty to start methodically moving the furniture out of the way and give up on calming him down until Shinra emerges, his face drawn but abnormally relieved, when she has to hold her friend back from undoing all of Shinra’s careful work in his attempts to crush Izaya into his chest either out of frustration or under the notion that it might be the only way to keep him truly safe. Like a fiery sunset lighting up the chess board between them as if to celebrate Shizuo’s unprecedented victory. Like healing scars, some still tender, other years old, always treated with an odd sort of gentleness, drawing fingers and lips like predetermined targets, never failing to make chests tight with some indecipherable emotion when touched.

And it’s white like a carton of milk brought over in place of an apology. Like snow tracked inside by two pairs of shoes, the prints too-close together because Shizuo is something of a built-in heater and his pockets are the favorite haunts of Izaya’s hands when the cold comes to stay for the season. Like the rare flash of Shizuo’s smile taking years off of his face as the lines between his eyebrows ease. Like the stacks and stacks of too many papers on Izaya’s desk sent fluttering haphazardly to the ground and around the room, a brief, messy event that will surely spark a fight later on, but for now only fills Shizuo with a deep sense of satisfaction as he replaces them with Izaya’s own body, pushing that damn swivel chair out of the way with his foot while he’s at it. Like the growing stack of Shizuo’s shirts in Izaya’s closet, contrasting so starkly with his own dark wardrobe that Izaya begins to think it might be time they consider adding a bit of color to their collection. Like the soft light of the moon drifting in through the large window behind Izaya’s desk, painting his exhaustion in gentle clarity in the shadows gathering under his eyes and in the messy state of his desk and in the weight of his sighs, so much that Shizuo decides it might be worth it to call him to bed and is gratified for once to hear his tired acquiescence. Like the color the one of his rings Izaya gave to Shizuo glints in the right light, blinking abruptly eye-catching on his finger considering how unremarkable it normally is. Like the smooth pale of Izaya’s skin, always soft and unfairly beautiful under Shizuo’s fingers, always presenting a blank canvas for Shizuo to decorate with more permanent marks tracking up the line of his neck or with the brief radiance of a flush along the tops of his cheeks and ears. Like clouds drifting by overhead, the sole indicator of passing time, as the two of them find a moment to simply sit, dangling their legs over the edge of the roof at Izaya’s behest, and watch the movement of their city below.

And it’s other colors too, Izaya muses. Pink like the flush creeping up the sides of their faces after lingering outside a few moments too long, too caught up in each other’s warmth to notice the encroaching cold. Grey like spirals of smoke rising up and gathering at the apex of his ceiling, the smell seemingly impossible to get rid of afterwards, or dissipating off into infinity when he manages to lure Shizuo up to the top of his building once in a while, the urban precipice being one of his favorite places in the whole city. Silver like his rings and his blade, both prone to drawing shudders down Shizuo’s spine, especially with Izaya’s reluctance to remove either from his person for any considerable amount of time. Bronze like Shizuo’s skin in the sun, acting as a magnet for Izaya’s restless fingers.

And there are some colors he is unable to name, doubts he ever will be: the deep, smoky color of Shizuo’s voice low and wanting, close enough to taste. The color of countless arguments, all ultimately inconsequential but commonplace enough to turn them almost strangely affectionate or at least long-suffering enough to give the sum of their parts greater meaning than is at first presented. The sequential fade of one color to the next, blending together and outlining the progression from one form of obsession to another, the proximity of the two always strangely exhilarating to him. The colors of the years beginning to pass them by, of early mornings, most of which Shizuo sleeps through, disconnecting their paths until they reunite once more after the light of the day has long since faded, and of late nights spent close enough to become occasionally overwhelming as often as possible. The color that could describe the way it feels to watch Shizuo’s face when Izaya first nonchalantly suggests they get over themselves at last and look for an apartment together, the way it feels to reach out and always find someone there in the middle of the night or waking up in Shinra’s operating room, again, or simply walking the streets of the city, the way it feels to demand how he can possibly not be tired of all this and find himself tracing his way back through the colors of their lives, always unable to find an adequately succinct, logical explanation, and maybe, he thinks, that might be the point.

Yes, their relationship is a spectrum, varied in all the best and worst possible ways, but that is what it means, Izaya likes to theorize, to love someone.


End file.
